A Martyr's Lament
by Eli Torres
Summary: You lie to yourself. You could never hate her. You can't even bring yourself to hate him, because he is what makes her happy, and that should be enough for you. But on some nights, when the alcohol obscures from view every plausible reason not to, and your inner martyr's voice is smothered at last, your thoughts coast back in time, to the night that she was yours. Read warnings.


**A Martyr's Lament**

**Summary: You lie to yourself. You could never hate her. You can't even bring yourself to hate him, because he is what makes her happy, and that should be enough for you. But on some nights, when the alcohol obscures from view every plausible reason not to, and your inner martyr's voice is smothered at last, your thoughts coast back in time, to the night that she was yours. Read warnings.**

**Warnings: Alcohol and drug abuse, sexual situations, depression, suicidal thoughts. The angst levels out, don't worry.**

**A/N: Started out as a personal nonfiction whilst drunkenly pining over a certain someone, then somehow my OTP took over, so figured I'd put it up. Might continue if I feel up to it. Also, I loathe the taste of vodka.**

You lean back in the recliner and sigh, twirling a wine glass in your hands. The light from the lone candle in the center of your coffee table catches it and reflects against the ceiling. You manipulate it for several seconds, watching it flicker and dance in a slow rhythm over the panels. Delaying the moment you take a first sip. As much as you long to slip into a drunken stupor and sleep away the long hours ahead, you know that you will regret it in the morning when you have to face reality once again. The pain of the aftermath is almost not worth the temporary relief. Almost.

The liquor stings going down your throat, burning a trail through you. It tastes awful, like soap and mustard seed. You refill the glass.

Over the past six months you've built up an irritatingly elevated tolerance and it takes three more after that before your head begins to cloud. And thus it begins.

You close your eyes, convincing yourself that you can see the stars behind your eyelids. You're flying through them, or maybe just falling, twisting and turning in the dark endless tunnel of space. You can't say how much time passes like that, staring into nothing and everything. This is the first stage. You feel like an astro-projector. Soon you will be with her again, if only in the depths of your subconscious.

When a coherent thought forms in your mind, you are surprised. _I hate her. She did this to me. She made me nothing. I hate her, god, I do._

You lie to yourself. You could never hate her. You can't even bring yourself to hate _him_, because he is what makes her happy, and that should be enough for you. You rectify the statement in your head, as though some foreign entity might have overheard your inner monologue and misunderstand. _That's not true. I love her. I love you. Let me be with you._

As though on command, a scene unfolds in your mind's eye. On some nights like these, when the alcohol obscures every plausible reason not to, and your inner martyr's voice is smothered at last, your thoughts coast back in time, to the night that she was yours.

_She stares up at you with those ridiculous eyes, green (green green green like lakewater in the morning like the pines outside the window) and her breath is labored and heavy, warm on your face, and it smells like the strawberries you'd had her taste (right out of your hand her lips on her fingertips oh god) and mingles with her familiar scent of vanilla just splendidly and Jesus, if she keeps looking at you like that and touching you there you might just keel over and die (but o would it be worth it)_

_You lean in closer and whisper your adoration into her mouth, hoping that she hears you this time, and she must because you feel her smile into the kiss as her hands roam up your sides, taking your tee shirt with them. Her knuckles graze the curvature of your breasts as she lifts it up, up over your head, and you help her by raising your arms before locking them around her again. You're afraid to let go, afraid she will disappear if you do—or worse, come to her senses and push you away._

_She doesn't disappear. Her clothing does, as does your own, you suppose, but can't focus on anything but the woman beneath you, bare and warm and pressing against you fully like you've always imagined, but o, it's so much better than your imagination, she's so close to you and whispering your name as you touch her. You press open-mouthed kisses everywhere you can reach, nipping at the soft skin, and you have to stop yourself from marking the smooth column of her neck. You want so desperately to leave your bite there, to display your affections for all to see, including—no, __**especially**__ her wretch of a boyfriend, but you won't because you don't think you can bear to see her cover it up the next day._

_Instead, you focus your attention elsewhere, skimming your palms over her toned stomach, relishing in the soft, contented sighs she emits as you reach your destination._

_You cater to her, pushing your own needs aside, determined to make this night memorable for her. You want to take care of her, push and push and unlock her secrets and make her yours, if only for a night, and it has to be good; so good that she can never lay with another without seeing your face, so that she cannot breathe without screaming your name, and you tell her as much with your face tucked into the crook of her neck as she stretches and whines, 'Remy, Remy, Remy,' her whole body tensing._

_She cries when she's finished, her eyes reddening and moist with tears, but when you try to gather her up in your arms she pushes you off, and for an instant a cold jolt of fear shoots through you and you start to cry, too, but then she's climbing on top of you and pinning you down onto the mattress and sliding her warm little hand between your thighs, and your whole body fills with warmth and light when she breathes her love against the damp skin of your throat._

_She steals the very breath from your lungs and you can't think, can't function, you just cling to her like a lifeline, scarcely able to keep up with the rapidity of her kiss, her touch. It's all over much too quickly as she pushes you over the edge, stars exploding behind your eyes. You arch your back and cry her name, over and over, and as she settles into your arm you can feel her hand stroking your side soothingly, and it's enough comfort to you that you feel safe to fall asleep there, sure that she is yours now._

_When you wake, she is gone. A small scrap of paper remains in her place. You read the note perhaps ten times over before you break down._

_(she's gone she's gone she went back to him it's all over but i love her please no)_

You open your eyes slowly and brush the fresh onslaught of tears from your cheek with the back of your hand. The ache in your chest is sobering you up, and you set aside the glass still clutched tightly in your white-knuckled hand, knowing the liquor will do you no good now. It is always this way.

You sit up slowly to rest your elbows on your knees and grit your teeth against the pathetic noises trying to escape your throat.

(_stop crying you piece of shit she's happier with him_)

Unwillingly your gaze rests on the wrinkled piece of paper on the floor a few feet away. It is worn, having been crumpled and unfolded over and over like some sort of nighttime ritual performed god knows how many times. You don't need to pick it up to see what it reads. Just two words in that too-familiar scrawl;

'_I'm sorry.'_

Your breath catches in your throat and you force yourself to look away, shivering.

(_it's your own fault you let her go you're not good enough never will be_)

You stand, running stiff fingers through your hair, and walk towards the kitchen. You pause before the paper, contemplating picking it back up. It has become as precious to you as any gift, in a sick way.

You kick it beneath the recliner, knowing you'll be back to fish it out again in the morning.

(_not tonight o no tonight i'm going to forget_)

You jerk open a drawer, rifle through the contents. Pull out a zip-loc stowing a pinch of white powder. A sterile needle. A rubber tourniquet. You pause, common sense breaking into your stupor. Combined with the vodka, this could kill you. Your grip on the needle loosens.

(_what does it matter you're going to die anyway and alone at that_)

With that thought, your motives shift. You dilute the powder with water, then you wrap the tourniquet around your arm, drawing it tight with your teeth.

(_she won't miss you she can be happy_)

You draw the solution into the syringe and almost smile to yourself.

(_she can be happy now and you won't hurt anymore_)

You touch the edge of the needle to your skin and the almost-smile fades as you remember another time you were in this position.

(_i don't want to die_)

Something vibrates against your thigh before you can really consider that. You let out a breath, drop the syringe back onto the counter and slip your hand into your pocket, retrieving your cell phone. You hold it to your ear without checking the caller I.D. You don't want to talk, but you know that if it's your boss, he'll be visiting you within an hour if you don't. "I can't come in now." Your own voice surprises you with its weakness. You feign a cough to cover it up.

"Remy?" You freeze.

Her voice sounds choked and strained with emotion, but immediately recognizable nonetheless. You don't know what to say. It's been six months and barely a handful of words exchanged with her. So you say nothing. She must hear you though. Your breathing, you realize, has suddenly become quite heavy.

"Remy I…please don't hang up." Her voice wavers and your heart clenches painfully. You hold the phone with both hands, cradling it. Your face feels cold against the back of your hand where the tears have dried.

"…I'm here." You keep your tone down, as though you might frighten her away like a skittish animal.

She swallows audibly. "I left Chase."

You raise your eyebrows and your heart skips a beat. "W-what?"

(_don't get ahead of yourself_)

"I…I told him the truth. Well, part of it. I said…I said I was in love with someone else," she explained, her voice still soft and timid.

(_no_)

You can't bring yourself to ask what you really want to know, so you edge around it. "And what did he say to that..?"

"He took it pretty well, all things considered…" She was speaking more quickly now. "He asked if the someone loved me back."

(_i do love you i love you please_)

"And?" You internally kick yourself.

"I told him…I don't know, but it doesn't make a difference, because I can't go on being with him when I love someone else...when I can only see her face no matter how hard I try not to…" You can hear her getting choked up and it tears you to pieces inside, but you remain silent, not knowing what to say.

"Please Remy, I'm so sorry. I understand," she drew a shaky breath, "if you've moved on. But I just…I couldn't take it anymore."

You need a long moment to put it all together in your head before you can speak again. You drop one hand to your side, bowing your head and letting a lock of hair fall in your eyes. At last, you pull yourself together and whisper into the mouthpiece.

"Come over."

**Jesus. That got away from me didn't it.**

**Review, and all that nice stuff**


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